Chapter 2 | Tio

As day gave way to night, Tio Mourillon descended the Lower Penville Road, weary from the day's toil. By the sweat of his brow he would eat bread. Lately, though, there had been plenty of sweat, but too little bread by way of reward.

On a good day, from the remote North of Dominica, it was possible to view some of the adjoining islands in the Windward chain of the Caribbean - firstly Marie Galante, beyond which sat Guadeloupe proper at the point at which the Atlantic met the Caribbean Sea. He gazed out seawards, seeing but not noticing how the sea shimmered at the command of the moon, so close at hand to him now, but soon to be seen no more. Nor did he perceive the beauty of his surroundings. He had seldom seen anything else. In years to come, Tio Mourillon would remember all of these things with a sense of longing.

People from his native villages, Upper and Lower Penville, hewn from African, Carib, and European stone, were disparagingly referred to in patois as ‘Penvillian goat-la’ - the ‘goats of Penville’ in English. The term, intended as an insult, was fitting – the people of this northernmost region of the island were indeed stubborn, but also resilient and adaptable in this mountainous region. After all, one man’s stubbornness is another’s admirable tenacity, proven daily through their ability to traverse the narrow tracks that snaked around the tropical mountain landscape, maintaining a footing above precipices both literal and metaphorical.

A languid lamp, fuelled by coconut oil - a habit they had formed during the war when kerosene was at a premium - shone faintly from Clara’s porch, a land-bound lighthouse guiding him to safe harbour, a haven from the day’s woes, where he knew that a warm welcome awaited. He needed to see a friendly face, perhaps even something to eat. Earlier, he had washed in the Dimitre River and had dried his shirt, knowing that he may well call at Clara’s. He was not as smart as he liked to be, as he was brought up to be, but at least he was presentable.

Tio and Clara had an understanding. They were to be married, but only when he could make his way in the world, an understanding firmer in her mind than in his. Clara could so easily have reproached him for taking so long to propose marriage. She did not and for that he was thankful. Even so, he could not keep her waiting forever. Sooner or later he would have to make his mind up. She made no complaint. Instead, she waited.

She understood that he must provide for her, not she for him. A man must have pride and self-respect, he said. He knew of many men who would allow an educated woman like Clara to support them, while they spent her modest, hard earned salary on liquor and tobacco and perhaps mistresses. Tio Mourillon was not such a man. Even her mother, who held Tio in no great regard, said so.

She was seven years his senior, source of much amusement from his brothers and their know-nothing friends. He knew the way they ran off at the mouth. It used to bother him, but he knew better now. He reasoned that they spent one minute, maybe two, ridiculing something or someone, then they forgot about their quarry and moved onto the next hapless recipient of their derision. After all, why spend your life worrying about another’s shallow passing thoughts? Why let them come between you and the things most important to you in this world?

He called out, thinking not to startle her.

“Clara?”

She may be on her own, and it would not be a good thing to approach her porch like some thief in the night.

“Tio, I didn’t know you were going to pass by. Come in. You look exhausted.”

“I’m a bit dirty. It’s okay?”

“But of course. It’s no problem.”

“Perhaps it’s better we sit out the front.”

“If you prefer. Are you hungry? We have ground provision and some salt-fish. You want some?”

Assuming the question to be rhetorical, he did not answer. What else would he be other than hungry after such a day?

The world looked a little brighter once his stomach was full. There was much to talk about, but for now, it was good just to relax in the cool of the evening.

These days Tio found he was having to give more thought to reputation than ever before in his life. Last year he found himself at the wrong end of some awkward rumours of his being pursuing his father’s latest woman. Clara had chosen to completely ignore the rumours as scurrilous gossip. Tio’s father, Ton Pierre, certainly did not ignore them and as a result, Tio had thought it wise to make himself scarce for two or three weeks until the furore died down.

Clara’s history was far more straightforward. Tio’s brother Gabriel was interested in her several years ago, but had for some reason decided no longer to be so, having led her along for over a year. This experience forged in Clara a steely restraint and a fixed-mindedness born from necessity and self-preservation.

She was his window to the world, as had her father been to his family in years previous. Where others might speculate what prevailed beyond the vast blue, Clara could speak with authority, not from having travelled there, but by it having travelled to her in the form of education. A conversation with her was never a descent into ignorance, but a step, perhaps several steps, into transcending enlightenment. If only he had had the chance to study to the upper standard. He would have grasped the opportunity with both hands and not let go.

Times past, on Sunday evenings she would read passages from famous books to Tio and some of his older siblings, Lipson and Everton. The brothers would often be boisterous and joke around, as all young men do, but sometimes they would pay attention and listen more intently than they ever cared to let on. Perhaps they thought it something they would have enjoyed more of had their mother not died several years ago. Or perhaps it was simply that they thought that it would give the appearance of being more educated in a time in which education was beginning to carry much social currency.

More likely, though, was that it gave them a glimpse of the world that existed beyond this small island. It was a time in which many young men uttered the phrase ‘mwen mal’ – life is hard for me. Those same young men needed to expand their horizons to see and experience what existed beyond the Caribbean and perhaps even beyond the Atlantic. Yes, they laughed, joked and fooled around like all young men, but they most certainly listened. And after they listened, both Everton and Tio often fell silent, immersed in their own thoughts.

Every young man of Tio's age had either worked or considered working in neighbouring French and Dutch speaking islands, Martinique, Guadeloupe, St Maarten, possibly even Curacao or even the South American mainland, just as all had heard of the awful things that might easily befall a young West Indian male should he be bold enough to venture across to the United States. Lately, however, opportunities to work in the surrounding islands were drying up. Tio had to come up with new ideas about how to get ahead in life.

Clara’s father had once bought a chaloup, a small boat, not knowing the first thing about fishing or sailing for that matter. Clara's mother, ever the optimist, had famously said that it would end up in tears. She turned out to be right. From then on, her mother used the anecdote to ensure any speculative idea was stillborn. For the entire duration of Clara’s early life, she had seen how grinding pessimism had worn her father down. Clara was not her mother. She would not make such a mistake.

Clara watched in silence as he paced back and forth on the porch, clearly agitated, his post dinner calm having quickly evaporated. He would say what was on his mind soon enough, she thought, but not before the charade of her having to coax out the information.
“Well, did you see Desmond at the Geest launch?” asked Clara.

Tio, having stopped pacing, now sat reclined in upon a chair, chin almost on his chest, arms folded, shaking his head periodically.

“Did it not go well?”

“Ask Desmond when you speak to him.”

“Tio, I am asking you.”

No answer.

“Tio, if you do not tell your story, who will?”

“I saw him when he was with all his important business friends.”

“And?”

More head shaking.

“I barely got a word out. Mister call me up and down. He start shouting about how I am coming to him for hand-out and that nobody ever give him anything in life, and why should he give me something?”

Where once she had heard confidence and sure-footedness, she now heard hurt and humiliation at the hand of a close relative. And yet, was this not the same well to do cousin who had worked with Tio’s own brother?

“I don’t understand this, Tio. Does Desmond think you will be troublesome?”

“Clara, I don’t know what mister think. The man spoke to me like I am nothing. I felt so foolish. What make it worse is it was in front of his important business friends who just stand there watching. I was hoping to do business with them in the future, and he shout at me like I was a piece of dirt. I've been thinking for days and days about how to talk about doing business.”

Ah yes, the truck - the Bedford truck. Such a magnificent vehicle would be capable of traversing the difficult and inaccessible terrain around Penville and Vielle Case and transporting produce such as bananas from the villages in the North East of the island to the North West, most importantly to the Geest launch at Portsmouth. Gone would be the backbreaking days of carrying bunches of bananas on one’s head for miles in all types of weather, fair and foul. Bananas would arrive fresh and intact in a timely manner. What could be better?

Such a vehicle would be an asset to the whole community, for trucks like these were invariably also used as makeshift buses. It would make Tio a man of some standing, and right now that would do his state of mind no harm at all.

“Clara, I have thought about this. I’ve done nothing but think about it. My father is the most skilled carpenter on the island; my older brothers are either carpenters or successful farmers. What am I?”

“You are a planter, for now, Tio. Gabriel and Everton may have started as carpenters, but they are in England right now. Who knows what they’re doing? It is no shame to be a planter. In time, you will rise to be more.”

“But what is there for me here? What chance will I ever have of getting up from the dust?”

“You are not in the dust. Life is hard, and hard for everyone right now. It will get better, though.”

“When?”

“I can’t answer that, Tio.”

“I am as good as them. All of them. But how can I get anywhere in life? I only have an elementary education. Every Dick, Tom and Harry is on the ladder climbing upwards, and I am not even on the first step. Men like mister, in his important position. Why should he talk to me so? Am I nothing?”

Clara, fearful of interrupting while he was in this state of mind, thought it best to stay silent for a while.

“Desmond has his place in this world. My brother has his. Where is mine?”

Clara hesitated.

“Tio, of course you are not nothing. I’ve said so to my mother and to many people. You tend your land diligently. You’re a hard worker…”

“But I am not getting anywhere, Clara.”

She wanted to say something meaningful, something profound to assuage his diminished pride, to convince him of his value. She wanted to say that his place in this world was here. No words came.

“What does your father say about all of this?”

“My father?” Tio looked at her, his eyes faintly glistening, “my father does not understand. There must be something better than this,” he sighed, “there has to be.”

“Are you still talking about the truck, Tio?”

He drew breath.

“I’m talking about going overseas to work, Clara.”

“You mean like last year, to Guadeloupe? Or Martinique?”

“No, England.”

The man who could become irritable and insufferable embarking upon even the smallest journey was going to travel half way across the world? Surely this was a joke.

“You mean go to England to stay?”

“No, no. Not live there, just go and work. Earn some money. One year, maybe two, then come back with enough money to buy the truck. England is open now.”

Evidently, it must also be accepting unskilled workers. From what Tio was saying, he must no longer be below the threshold to emigrate. Not so very long ago, those such as his oldest brother Gabriel, who were contemplating the journey had to prove they had sufficient means to return. Things must have changed. How quickly the world was changing. How quickly her world was changing.

“Dominicans are not treated with respect in England, Tio. I have heard that in the places where they have rooms to stay they have signs saying …”

“I know what the signs say there, Clara, the ones that say no dog and no black man and no Irish man. I have read some of Gabriel’s letters saying how it is beaucoup cold there and how you never see the sea once you get off the boat.”

“And do you think you will be okay to live and work in England? What if they don’t like you? What if you don’t like them?”

“I don’t need to go see the queen in her palace. I just need to work and earn money. And I have worked with lots of people I don’t like.”

Clara worried that she may be sounding a little desperate, or at very least taking too unfavourable a view upon the idea. She could almost hear her mother’s voice now. Of course he is going, she would say, you are not married, what claim do you have on him?

“I don’t recall where your brothers are staying in England. Do you?”

“Is he London?”

“No, it’s not London. London is south. I think it is further in the North of England.”

“Scotland?”

“No, no. Scotland is a different country altogether.”

She knew this, she was sure, but it was momentarily evading her.

“Lincoln. It is called Lincoln, I think.”

“Like the president?”

“I think so.”

“So, are you thinking of joining Gabriel and Everton?”

“Yes. I’m waiting for a letter from Gabriel.”

A letter? It was becoming increasingly clear that some parts of this conversation were not entirely spontaneous. What else was he not telling her?

“You may be waiting some time. Your brother doesn’t like writing.”

“Do you have any pictures or books about England, about Lincoln?”

“I have many books from England, but I don’t think any are about Lincoln. Let me go see.”

Clara disappeared indoors to rummage. Many of the books she possessed were given to her by a close English Creole friend before she left for England. Clara had managed to accumulate quite a library of English classic literature such as Shakespeare plays, sonnets, poetry books, encyclopaedias and some history books that contained some eye-watering references to the some of the Empire’s colonial subjects.

Minutes after disappearing, Clara emerged with a book as promised. The book she had retrieved seemed far too small to contain any detailed maps or meaningful pictures.

“Here it is. It is the only thing on Lincoln I could find. I knew I had something.”

“What is he?”

“A few poems.”

“Poems?” The disappointment in his voice was audible.

“You sometimes like poetry.”

“Here’s one. The Brook, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”

“What is he about?”

“It’s about a brook, of course. A stream.”

“Like here?”

“Yes, like here. Close your eyes and I’ll read it to you.”

“If I close my eyes, they will stay closed, I'm so tired.”

“Close your eyes. Then you’ll see the picture in your mind.”

“I can hear what you are reading, Clara. Just read.”

She checked to see if his eyes were closed.

“I’m not going to read all of it, or you will be asleep. I’ll just read the best parts.”

No further protest was forthcoming. His eyes remained open, however.

“Okay,
'I wind about, and in and out,
with here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
'And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silver water-break
Above the golden gravel,
'And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
'I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.'

She wondered for a moment if she was trying his patience. He appeared relatively content compared to a few minutes ago, despite his refusal to close his eyes. It was as if the rhythm soothed him after so long and arduous a day. She continued.

'I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
'I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
'And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.'

She paused, awaiting a response.

“Sounds like here.”

“Perhaps a little like here, yes.”

“Maybe England is just like here, but with English, not Dominicans.”

“And colder.”

“Yes, and colder. Where they drink tea like this.” She feigned holding an imaginary tiny cup with her little finger cocked.

“What do you think a grayling is?”

“A grayling is a fish, I think. You like the poem?”

Tio shrugged.

“It's alright.”

It was a poem about a stream in the countryside, but not in his countryside, or at least not yet. He would be going to a land where streams were so few and far between that poems were written about them. Here streams were so numerous there was one for every single day of the year.

Why leave the richness of his home environment for what may well be paucity in another land? She knew not to ask, for the answer was plain for all to see. He could not live on the beauty of his surroundings. He needed substance and the substance was to be found elsewhere.

“So, Tio Mourillon. What is it that you want to ask me since you arrived?”

He shuffled in his seat.

“I wanted … I’d like … will you wait for me, Clara?”

She paused for what seemed to him an eternity, simply staring at the floor. It was not the question she had hoped he would ask.

“You know …” she started in a faltering voice, “you know I’m not getting any younger, Tio? And you know that England is full of white women, and you will get lonely there when you stay with your brothers?”

“I’m not looking for a white woman, Clara. You’re the woman I want, and when I can make my way in this world, I want us to be married when I come home.”

“So, you are asking me to marry you?”

“Yes, I want us to marry and I want you to wait for me. Will you?”

Once again Clara gazed at the floor for yet another seeming eternity.

“But of course. I will marry you. I will wait for you. And I will help you go to England to make your way there, and to come back to be a man of business here. With a truck.”

“Yes,” he laughed for the first time that evening, “with a truck.”

Before he left, they kissed on the porch of her house, this time, less worried about what anyone might say. After all, they could now tell anyone they were engaged should they care to comment. Clara the schoolteacher would not be marrying beneath her. She would be marrying a man who had travelled the world, soon to come back as a man of means - the owner of freight transport to Portsmouth - a businessman.

She had long awaited his proposal, just as she had once waited in vain for one from his brother. Now that it had finally arrived, it was tempered with the bitterness of his leaving, potentially for years.

As Tio Mourillon strode away from Clara’s house, a thought lingered in his mind. Sometimes a person can think that they are wrestling with a decision, poring over each and every detail as if the whole thing is precariously balanced and could tip either way when actually they are kidding themselves. In truth, they made that decision long ago.

Once he had disappeared into the teeming darkness, Evelyn, Clara's mother, edged out onto the porch, too soon for her to have been any distance away previously. She must have overheard most, if not all of the conversation.

“So,” she sniffed, “England?”

“Yes, Mama ... England.”

“I think the boy want to put some milk in his coffee!”